


Who's speaking?

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Phone Calls, Post-Reichenbach Reunion fic, South Africa, mushy reunion, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John moves to Johannesburg to build a new life. All is going well, until he receives a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Johannesburg, South Africa. 6.30 pm.

Doctor John Watson is just about to head home after a particularly long, hot and exhausting day. Of course, most days in South Africa are long and hot, and most days in the hospital are exhausting, having to deal with every injury or disease imaginable, varying from malnutrition to broken bones to AIDS. In the two years he has now been working at the hospital he has lost at least one patient every day and miraculously saved one every other day, but emotionally trying as that is, there is nothing else he’d rather be doing right now. He needs exhaustion, in fact he welcomes it with arms wide open. He needs something to distract him, to fully absorb every last bit of his attention and leave him with nothing but deep and dreamless sleep in the nights that follow, otherwise he’ll end up waking in an even worse but completely different state of weariness, his head ringing with the sound of his own voice screaming out a certain name.

Most nights he is lucky enough to stumble into his bedroom, fall onto the bed and not leave until the next morning, reasonably refreshed. Other nights, not so much.

He had also needed to leave London, of course. What good was it to try and go back to a normal life, or as far as normal would go for a retired army doctor with an adrenaline addiction, when every corner, every alley, hell, every flippin’ _street_ held a memory? When you saw long, dark coats swirling by everywhere you looked? Where you glanced suspiciously at every cab, chinese restaurant or swimming pool? Or every luxury black car, for that matter? It was impossible. He had applied for the first medical job he could find in the most remote country he could think of and he’d been on the plane to Johannesburg before you could say ‘vuvuzela’.

And now here he is, two years later and he is slowly starting to actually enjoy his working life, instead of deeming it a necessary evil. He has always wanted to make a difference, the reason he joined medical school in the first place, and here, one single man who knew exactly where the bruises on a young girl’s arm are coming from and could therefore figure out why she is suddenly tired and nauseous in the morning, can make all the difference in the world. No one said his job was cheerful, but John Watson has lost cheerful a long time ago and by now only cares about compassion.

But now is working daw is over so he leaves his office and is about to head for the door when the receptionist calls out to him. ‘Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson! Phone call for you!’

He turns around, surprised. ‘For me?’

No one ever calls him here. Patients are dealt with by the receptionists, and all the other people who could possibly want to contact him call him on his mobile. Not that there are many of them. Not anymore.

‘Who is it?’ he asks as he walked over to the desk.

The receptionist shrugs. ‘Didn’t say his name.’

‘Well, go ahead and ask him, would you? I’m not taking phone calls from strangers.’

The man does  as he was told, and visibly pales at the answer. He turns back to John. ‘He says he’s from the British Government.’

The world grows impossibly quiet as John tries to take this in. Only one person in the entire world would introduce himself like that and the good doctor has absolutely no idea why, since he has not spoken to him in three years. Their last conversation had ended with John punching the man in the face, at the end of the Worst Week of his life.

‘Dr. Watson?’ the receptionist asks.

John swallows. ‘Put it through to my office please. I’ll take it in there.’

He slowly goes back into his office, still wading through a cloud of confusion, and picks up the phone.

‘Hello, John,’ he hears a familiar, drawling voice greet him. ‘How have you been?’

‘Mycroft. What the hell is going on?’ he asks, already feeling the unresolved Issue (yes, it deserved a capital I) between them rearing its head, accompanied by the anger and resentment that are never far behind.

‘I take it from your colourful greeting that you are doing well,’ the voice drawls on, like the Issue never happened, or was just a little, capital-less issue, easy to be resolved if the other party would just _listen._ ‘You also seem to have the impression that something is ‘going on’ (John can practically _hear_ the comma’s falling into place), instead of this being a call from a friend.’

‘You’re no friend of mine, Mycroft. Not anymore. If you ever were.’ Damn. His speech’s a mess.

Mycroft chuckles. ‘You seem to be losing sense there, doctor. And you were of to such a good start. There is in fact a matter that has come to light that I’m sure you would find interesting.’

There is nothing left in Britain that possibly could hold any interest for him, but he is not going to tell the British Government that. First of all, Mycroft already knows, and secondly, the sooner this conversation is over, the better.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember the Richard Brooke case, a few years ago?’ Mycroft asks innocently.

‘You mean the case where your brother, after being smeared by the press, committed suicide by jumping off a rooftop? Yeah, I remember.’ It is low, but apparently, Mycroft is not above foul play either.

‘I tought you might. And you never wondered if there wasn’t something… off? Something that was not right?’

‘The entire _case_ was off, Mycroft. Get to the point.’ John is rapidly losing patience and gaining fury, as the memories of three years ago start playing before his eyes again. Sherlock, a small figure on a rooftop. Then falling, falling forever, flailing helplessly with his arms. The resounding _thud_ as he lands on the unforgiving pavement. His body, limp and lifeless, and his eyes, staring into nothingness, all the shining brilliance in them gone forever .

Mycroft has started an answer, probably getting to the point in his own twisting and turning way, when someone on his end cuts him of. John does not recognise the voice or what it says, but the intention is clear: stop playing around and get on with it. He hears a huff and something along the lines of: all right, no need to make a fuss. Then:

‘Sherlock did not commit suicide, John.’

John is to worn out to even try and begin to understand. ‘What do you mean? He jumped. Voluntarily. He died. Seems like a suicide to me.’

‘That is two out of three correct, John, but unfortunately, the one you got wrong is the most important. Sherlock did jump, out of his own free will, but he did not die.’

‘Mycroft, I saw him,’ John says very slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. ‘He landed on the pavement, I took his pulse and I saw his eyes. I know he didn’t survive. He couldn’t have. He is…’

Mycroft interrupts his rant. ‘There are numerous ways to survive a fall from a great height, doctor, as there are numerous ways to fake one’s death. I thought a medical man would know that.’

John does not even hear the insult. If Mycroft is telling the truth, and honestly, he sees no reason why the man should lie to him, there are a lot of questions to be answered. When he is sitting down and has his breath back, he fires the first one.

‘How?’

‘With the help of physics, his so-called ‘Homeless Network’ and Miss Hooper, as far as I understand.’

It takes John a moment to make the connection between Miss Hooper and her first name. ‘Molly? Really?’

‘Apparently, yes. Fortunately for him, she seems quite fond of my brother,.’

John doesn’t know if he should laugh or get mad at little Molly Hooper, who seemed so innocent and charming and has sent him into three years of misery by not sharing her secret with him. Then again, neither has Mycroft. Or Sherlock himself. He has been kept in the dark, where other people had known the truth. Rage is obviously the better option here, but he swallows it, saves it for later. Instead of lashing out, he fires the next question. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Wrong question, John,’ Mycroft replies, still infuriatingly calm. ‘First, you should ask why he jumped in the first place.’

‘Fine. Why did he jump?’

The answer takes him completely by surprise. After Mycroft tells him how Moriarty set everything up, made up the entire story about The Fraud Detective, made Sherlock face an impossible dilemma and caused him to make the ultimate sacrifice, the doctor falls silent for a full minute, until the voice on the other end of the line softly asks if he is still there, with not a hint of the usual arrogance. He can only confirm with a grunt, before falling into silence again. Only when Mycroft says his name again does he reply properly.

‘He did this for me.’

‘For all of you, it would seem,’ Mycroft answers. ‘For you, and your landlady and Detective Inspector Lestrade. We found evidence of at least three gunmen, but there could have been more.’

‘Seems Lestrade was right after all,’ John mutters to no one in particular.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing. Just… nothing.’ There is more silence, before John finds it in himself to ask another question. ‘Why call me now? You couldn’t have told me this earlier, so what happened?’

The last words are said with just a hint of the storm that is raging inside him now. Mycroft must hear it, because his answer is unusually short and to the point.

‘The game is over, John. Moriarty’s web is gone. Sherlock was safe to come back, so he has.’

It is over. The game that started with the Pink Lady and, for John, ended at the rooftop of St. Bart’s, is now truly over. No more Moriarty, no more Richard Brooke but, if he is lucky, a whole lot of Sherlock to come back to. He lets this sink in in silence too, unable to put the wave of relief and rage and joy and hurt and  rage and strange enough, sadness into words. It takes another two minutes before  Mycroft impatiently mentions he should announce this ‘falling quiet’ before he blames the phone connection. ‘Anyway,’ he continues,  ‘I thought you might want to talk to him.’

This abruptly jerks John out of his thoughts. ‘You mean he’s there?’

‘Of course. He’s sitting in front of me, glaring and melodramatic as ever.’

‘Put him through,’ is all John can manage to say.

The other line changes hands, along with some rather unpleasant muttering, before John hears a very deep and very familiar baritone say: ‘John?’

And in that moment, the full truth of what is happening hits him like a freight train. Sherlock is alive. Mycroft was not discussing some hypothetical scenario, just for the sake of What If, but Sherlock is really, truly and very alive and talking to him right now, just a breath away.

‘Sherlock,’ he whispers, and then, remembering what Mycroft just said: ‘I’m not going to say anything for a couple of minutes. Please don’t hang up on me.’

A chuckle that is so unmistakenably Sherlock that the freight train turns on its tracks and hits him again, just for fun. ‘I won’t. I might not say anything for a couple of minutes either.’

Minutes pass, without a sound. It’s just the two of them, sharing breaths over a phone line that makes the thousands of miles between them fade into nothing. John thinks there has never been a more perfect moment in his life.

Sherlock is the first to speak again.

‘I imagine I owe you an apology. A real one, this time.’

John grins, a proper grin of pure joy for the first time in months. ‘Yes, you do. You utter _bastard._ ’

‘I am truly sorry, John, for what I did. For leaving you like that. If there had been any other way out…’

‘I know, Sherlock,’ John says softly. ‘I know. And I know there was no other way. Moriarty would have shut down all the other options.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock says, audibly surprised. ‘You are the first one not to scold me for all the suffering I have caused you.’

John’s grin has softened to a smile. ‘Like I said, I know it was the only way out. You did what you had to do and saved our lives. I can’t possibly scold you for that.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock says again and John can hear the thinly veiled emotions hiding under those two words. ‘So… you’ll come home then?’

Home. Back to Baker Street. Back to a life of chasing criminals, solving crimes and probably getting injured or killed in the process. This time, it does not take one second of silence for John to say ‘yes’.

‘But Sherlock…’ he says, after the initial excitement has cooled down. A bit.

‘What is it?’

‘I just said I would not scold you for everything you did to me, right?’

‘Yes. Yes, you did.’ The cautious voice tells John that Sherlock knows exactly what he is going to say next.

‘However, I’m still going to punch you, shout at you and possibly even choke you, and I’ll start right after I’ve chained you to a chair to prevent you from leaving _ever again_.’

An exasperated sigh, but the laughter under it is clearly audible, at least, to John. ‘Nothing more than I deserve, I suppose.’

When John walks out of his office, really heading home this time, not his flat in Jo’burg but _home,_ the receptionist callls out to him again. ‘Dr. Watson?’

He turns around, beaming at the man who changed everything by simply picking up the phone. ‘What is it now?’

The receptionist gives him a worried look. ‘Are you alright, doctor?’ he asks. ‘You’ve been crying, and that phone call…’

John grins. ‘I am fine, thank you,’ he says. And for the first time in nearly three years, it’s true.

He is absolutely fine.

 


	2. Epilogue: Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's reunion time! A horribly mushy and probably slightly OOC one at that, so ye be warned.

Sherlock is pacing up and down Mycroft’s study, contemplating whether it wouldn’t be better to jump out of the windows and make a run for it, when it’s too late. The door swings open and John walks in, no, no, he _limps_ in, leaning heavily on a cane not unlike the one he had when Sherlock first met him and that is _wrong_ , so wrong that all deductions about his clothing and his haircut and his tan lines freeze in Sherlock’s throat and he is rendered speechless.

John, however, is not.

‘Just for the record,’ he says, casually as if they’ve only last seen each other that same morning, ‘I know I said I wouldn’t be mad at you, and I am not, honestly. And I know I’ve said it before, but I don’t fucking care, I’ll probably be telling this for the rest of your fucking life: if you ever pull something like this again, if you ever get it into your fucking head to leave me behind again, I _will_ come after you and I _will_ club you to death with your own fucking phone.’

It works like a spell. Sherlock remembers how to move, so he _pounces_ on John, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him so close he briefly knocks the wind out of the good doctor but that doesn’t matter because now John is finally _right there_ and so all Sherlock has to do is hold on and don’t let go and he does a frankly spectacular job of it, clinging on to the man for dear life and praying that John won’t come to his senses, won’t have second thoughts about coming back now he’s seen him, that he won’t break free and run away because that would be worse than all the misery of the past years combined, much, much worse because back then he still had hope that one day he and John would be back together again but if John leaves now, which he has every right to even though he said he wasn’t angry, then there won’t be any hope left and suddenly his legs feel all funny and something is wrong with his lungs because he seems to be choking.

John, in the meanwhile, is steady as ever if you don’t count the death grip he holds on Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Easy,’ he says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. The tidal wave of panic recedes, just a little.

‘Easy,’ John says again, ‘try to breathe, love. God, please, Sherlock. _Breathe.’_

Something is starting to go wrong with John’s voice and the smile is gone, but Sherlock isn’t listening anymore. John told him to breathe so breathing is what he will do, because it’s not boring, not when John thinks it isn’t so he buries his nose into the doctor’s hair and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of airfield and petrol and London rain and some cheap cologne he instantly despises because it’s nothing like John at all. But then he breathes again and this time there’s tea and shampoo and spice and warmth and _John._

He only realises he's said the last word out loud when John gives a little gasp and then starts trembling all over. It’s the first thing he’s said since they’ve seen each other and somehow it feels insufficient to say it just once, so Sherlock decides to repeat it. ‘ _John_ ,’ he says again, in a voice that sounds absolutely nothing like his own.

John starts to shake in earnest now, face buried in Sherlock’s neck. Apparently his leg has given out completely because the bulk of his weight is now leaning on Sherlock who still doesn’t trust his own legs to be strong enough to support him, let alone the both of them, so he carefully lowers himself onto the thick, plush carpet since the only other furniture in the room are chairs and they just won’t do, not now. Maybe later, but for now, it’s sitting on the floor and leaning against the solid oaken coffee table with John sprawled over him as they both shatter apart like Mummy's favourite china teapot Sherlock had flung at Mycroft when he was eight years old and had just discovered his brother would abandon him to go to Uni. It had shattered against the wall, leaving a million colourful pieces laying strewn across the parlour. It is exactly how Sherlock imagines himself now, crushed with relief and love for the man in his arms and reduced to nothing but fragments scattered across the study.

He keeps saying John’s name while holding him tight and pressing kisses into his hair, over and over again, because there’s no stopping him now. John is alternating between strangled sobbing and muttering inaudible nonsense into Sherlock’s chest and it’s glorious. It’s even better than Sherlock could have imagined when he was freezing to death in a Sherpa hut in Nepal and visions of John were the only thing that could get him through the nights, better even than his fever dreams when he was dying of pneumonia two weeks later. They're burning brighter than the Hindenburg and sinking deeper than the Titanic and they’re the most beautiful wreck he’s ever seen.

‘God, what a mess we are,’ John says about a lifetime later. He makes no effort to get up, however, for which Sherlock is fiercely grateful. ‘And I was planning to beat the crap out of you when I saw you. Not end up on the floor crying like a baby.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock says softly, even though he isn’t. Not really.

‘Well, you bloody well should be.’ But there is no real anger in John’s voice, even though he must obviously suspect Sherlock doesn’t really mean it.

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock says, and this time, he does mean it. He is truly grateful to John Watson, for more than he could possibly put into words.

‘You’re very welcome.’ John smiles and lifts his hand to cup Sherlock’s face.

The atmosphere in the room takes on another quality entirely. John's eyes bore into Sherlocks, who finds it's now physically impossible to look away. If it means Sherlock goes cross-eyed when the good doctor closes what little distance there remains and kisses him like tomorrow will never come, then so be it because looking away or closing his eyes is _not_ an option.

John is making impatient noises against his mouth so Sherlock obliges and lets him in and suddenly experiences an altogether different kind of glorious. John’s hands are in his hair now, fisting his curls in a beautifully painful way and his own hands are sliding down the doctor’s back until they are _right there,_ right where they belong i.e. in a firm grip on John’s arse, while lips and tongues and teeth take over to convey what words possibly couldn’t. They kiss and kiss and kiss and then kiss some more until they’re both limp and giddy from the lack of oxygen.

At last, Sherlock carefully untangles the two of them, despite protest from John who apparently rather wishes to complete the proceedings there and then. But there are limits to Mycroft's patience and Sherlock silently assumes that fucking each other senseless in the study might overstep a boundary or two. Besides, he can think of a much better place to go.

‘Let’s go home,’ he whispers as he helps John to his feet.

John only clutches his arm a bit tighter than strictly necessary before he nods, grinning. ‘Let’s go home.’


End file.
